Conan: Road of Kings (22 page)

“I sought to find a sanctuary from the evil in our world. I found it here in the grove of Jhebbal Sag. I vowed never to leave this haven. But evil has revealed its presence to me even here, and I must break my vow to erase the shadow it has flung across the grove.”

“Afterward,” Santiddio said awkwardly, “you can come back to your grove and dwell here in peace.”

“Ah, no. I shall never return. Only once in the life of a soul is sanctuary revealed. Once renounced, it shall be forever lost.”

Twenty

The Road of Kings

In the weeks that followed tales of increasing civil unrest coupled with unbridled tyranny reached them as they travelled. In return for their support of his reign, Mordermi gave the great lords a free hand to rule their holdings as they willed. In Kordava, the new king’s taste for show and luxury made his palace and court the most magnificent of all the western realms, while his court revels were rumored to exceed even the debauches of the most licentious eastern potentates.

The bribes he bestowed lavishly, the costs of his growing mercenary army, the expense of his opulent court—all made inroads on a treasure even so seemingly limitless as the loot of Kalenius’ tomb. Reluctant to deplete his trove unnecessarily, Mordermi simply doubled taxation beyond Rimanendo’s excesses of the past. Protest was viciously suppressed, and disturbances were crushed without mercy. Backed by the presence of the Final Guard, Mordermi’s rule was unassailable and absolute.

Zingara seethed with popular unrest as never before—for the threat of the Final Guard made Mordermi arrogant in his power, knowing that any act of oppression he chose to make must be endured by his subjects. To resist was to die.

There are times when existence may grow so intolerable that even the threat of death loses its terror. Through this mounting desperation, Conan and Santiddio moved across Zingara, gathering men for their cause—secretly at first, then openly calling the people to arms as their ranks swelled. Conan had been well liked by his men—many of whom had been in open disbelief when it was announced that their general had been arrested for treason—and Mordermi’s picked henchmen who took over from Conan’s officers were resented. Conan now was able to win over whole garrisons from the men who had followed him before and who now mutinied against Mordermi’s officers. The mercenary companies, who saw Conan as a hero from their ranks, came over to the Cimmerian in entire units. At the same time, Santiddio addressed the common people of every city and village, calling for them to rise up against those who oppressed them and to push the revolution Mordermi had betrayed on to final victory. Santiddio had always been a clever public speaker, albeit frequently too intellectual for the audience he addressed. Now his words were driven into their minds by the naked emotions that raged in his heart. Once Santiddio had sought to instruct the people; now he inflamed them.

Word of Conan’s growing power in the provinces reached Mordermi in Kordava. The king sent out an expedition commanded by the powerful Count Perizi to intercept the rebels and destroy their army. Conan retreated into the eastern mountains. When Perizi confidently pursued, Conan struck from ambush with far greater strength than his feigned retreat had evidenced. Perizi was defeated after a day of hard fighting, and enough of his expeditionary force escaped to spread tales of a powerful rebel army whose strength was anything but the ragged guerilla band they had been told to destroy. After that, Conan’s army doubled its ranks in days. No longer did the rebels move secretly; the great lords retreated into their fortresses and prayed their army would be content to pass by.

Concern deepened in Kordava. Mordermi sent out a major army under Baron Manovra. Conan sent him back Manovra’s head. The rebels were now in control of the provinces.

Mordermi’s followers pleaded with him to send the Final Guard into the field to annihilate the rebel army. Mordermi refused, pointing out that this would be playing into Conan’s hands. The rebels could not control Zingara unless they took Kordava, and they could not take Kordava because of the Final Guard. Conan’s strategy was to ravage the provinces, seeking to draw the Final Guard out of Kordava. Once the Final Guard had been lured into the provinces, the rebels could sweep down on Kordava and attack the city before the stone warriors could march back.

In time, Mordermi argued, Conan’s rebels would grow impatient. Emboldened by their victories, they would at last move against Kordava and seek the final victory. Then Conan would have played into Mordermi’s hands, and the massacre of the rebels that day would end thoughts of revolution for all time.

Mordermi again proved to be a master of strategy. Word came to Kordava that Conan was marching against the capital.

*

Santiddio’s face was as hard as his steel cuirass, as he went over final preparations for the next day’s battle. It was a battle that he must lead.

“You’ve seen more combat than most king’s generals,” Conan rallied him. “Trust Vendicarmi here if you’re uncertain as to any move. This old warhorse has fought in more battles than I have, and I was born on a battlefield.”

Conan grinned at the frost-bearded mercenary captain who shared their council, then grew more serious. “One of us has to lead tomorrow’s attack. Otherwise the men will believe we’ve deserted them in the face of the Final Guard. It is bad enough that I won’t be in the front of things, that I’ll supposedly be leading a charge against the river gate. But we dare not trust the secret of our mission to others; surprise is our only chance for success.”

“I only wish I were going with you,” Santiddio said. “Or instead of you. You could remain here and lead the attack.”

“The attack is a feint—I hope you’ve understood that much!
Don’t
close with the Final Guard. Harass the walls, seek to draw them out. Mordermi will expect that, withhold his army of devils. Let the stalemate stand. When Mordermi finally wearies of this and sends the Final Guard into the field—fall back! You can’t do battle with them, so stay clear. Let them chase you all the way to Aquilonia, but don’t throw away brave men’s lives against devils that can’t be slain.

“My mission will be two-fold,” Conan went on. “To kill Callidios and to get Destandasi into his tower. One or the other, I must not fail. I’m not saying a thing against you, Santiddio—but if it comes down to cutting through a ring of guards to get to Callidios, I’ll take a lot of killing before I’m down.”

He clasped Santiddio’s hand. “If we make it,
and
if we’ve guessed right, the Final Guard will be no more. Then you can throw every man you’ve got against the soldiers that remain, and good luck. If the Final Guard marches from Kordava, then you’ll know I’m dead. You’ll have to try again.”

“Good luck to you, Conan. I’ll see you in Kordava, or I’ll see you in Hell.”

Conan and Vendicarmi paused outside the tent, while Santiddio spoke a few words with Destandasi. Their parting was short. In a moment the girl stood beside Conan and nodded.

Together they slipped through the darkened camp. A group of horsemen awaited them at the perimeter—ostensibly the advance scout that Conan had ordered to examine the defenses of the river gate. They were trusted men, sworn to secrecy. When Conan and Destandasi left their party in the course of their ride, no head turned to follow them.

Kordava slept fitfully, awaiting the battle that the next day would bring. Confident that the Final Guard would defend the city for them, the sentries along the walls maintained their watch with a casualness born of arrogance. Victory would certainly be theirs—a victory won for them by the demon warriors—and only a fool would spill his own blood.

Others within Kordava felt only despair during this eve of battle. Their hopes were with the rebels, and tomorrow would see the annihilation of their army and of their cause. Mordermi’s rule would never again be challenged after tomorrow.

Conan had slipped past far more vigilant sentries than those who kept watch along Kordava’s waterfront. Beside him, Destandasi moved with the silent stealth of a forest creature. They had left their horses at a distance; Conan stole a skiff, and they drifted into the waterfront under the chill cover of mist. Where the fires had burned themselves out after the battle of the Pit, little had been done to rebuild the devastated slum area. Like ghosts the two edged through the chaos of blackened walls and charred timbers—at length descending by a devious entrance into the Pit.

The appearance of two cloaked figures in the Pit was nothing that would draw attention, even on this night when the usual air of revelry was stifled by the approaching battle. Conan’s chief fear was that he would be recognized—he was well known here, and his giant frame stood out. Avoiding the rare patches of light, Conan hoped no hostile eyes would penetrate the shadows of his hood. Chances were that the citizens of the Pit sympathized with the rebels, but that wouldn’t stop one of them from collecting the generous bounty Mordermi would pay to learn of Conan’s whereabouts on the eve of his attack. The fact that everyone knew that Conan would lead his rebel army against Kordava within the next several hours dulled the suspicions of any who may have taken note of the hulking figure. Conan was with his army; how could he be here in Kordava?

Mordermi had systematically rooted out the White Rose after their riots against his rule—a task that was made the easier since the king knew most of their leadership personally. Not all of the underground organization had been arrested. Santiddio had remained in communication with those in Kordava who yet carried on despite Mordermi’s persecution of his former allies. It was to these men that Conan looked for help.

Near the turning of an alley that pressed between dank walls at scarcely shoulder’s breadth, Conan paused beside a low door, knocked carefully in a rhythmic pattern. A voice made a low muttering from the other side. Conan made a similar response. The door cracked open, and they slid inside.

A score of men and women were gathered in the dingy room beyond. There were crowded rows of filthy bunks, and beneath the low ceiling the air was sour with the stench of unwashed bodies and stale hashish fumes. Those who waited here tonight were not habitués of this sort of crib. Alert faces studied the two newcomers, and a casual glance noted a profusion of weapons ready to hand. Conan recognized about half of them. Voices murmured.

“Welcome back to the Pit, Conan,” their leader greeted him. “Santiddio told me you were to come, but I didn’t believe until now. The others were not told the reason for this gathering. I take few chances—else none of us would be here.”

Conan returned their stares. These were a different breed from the followers of the White Rose that he remembered. The faces of these men and women were tight and bitter; there was none of the camaraderie and bright self-importance of the White Rose of Rimanendo’s reign. This was not a debating society; these were dangerous fighters. Conan approved of them.

“The less you know, the better,” Conan addressed them. “You know who I am, so you know I wouldn’t be here without reason. I want a riot before the palace gate by the next hour. I need it to look good, and I need it to hold their attention. Make them turn out the guard, then get away as best you can. Is there anything more to tell you?”

The room remained silent. The White Rose had outgrown its youth—those who survived.

“There’s another exit that leads topside,” their leader directed Conan. “You’ve got your riot.”

Not long after that, Conan and Destandasi crouched in the shadow of a doorway, watching the open court that separated the royal palace from the surrounding buildings. The mist grew denser as the moon set, and the interval of intense darkness that men call the hour of the wolf closed upon the city. Guards shivered at their posts atop the fortress walls, silently bemoaning the fact that they must stand sentinel duty even though the unfeeling stone flesh of the Final Guard was presence enough to defend the palace and indeed the entire city from any foe.

Conan tried to recall the exact posting of the guards. There was a chance that the routine had been changed since the army was under his command. With the impending battle, sentries may well have been doubled; sleepless soldiers might loiter in the night. But he had to reach the tower undetected, and the only way for them was to go over the wall.

Shouts pierced the silence from the main gate of the fortress. Conan, who waited beneath the walls opposite to the disturbance, could discern the wan glow of flames from that quarter, turning the fog opalescent. Dimly he could hear the words they shouted to those who stood guard at the tyrant’s threshold.

“Soldiers of Zingara! Why do you serve the tyrant who has betrayed his people!”

“Whose brothers will his demons butcher next!”

“The army of liberation has come! Will you kill your brothers to preserve a tyrant!”

“Throw down your weapons! It is you who are slaves!”

“Come over to us! Join your brothers to depose the tyrant!”

“Death to the tyrant! Death to Mordermi!”

By now the answering shouts from the soldiers at the gate drowned out the uproar in the square beyond. From the flickering light, Conan guessed they must have fired a building. In the fortress, the garrison was turning out to quell the riot. All eyes would be drawn toward the disturbance before the gate.

Conan judged that the diversion was having the desired effect. “Here we go,” he hissed to Destandasi.

Leaving the shelter of the doorway, they darted across the open space and into the shadow of the rear wall. In their dark cloaks, they would have been difficult to see even had a sentry been watching at that moment. Conan strained his ears, but heard no challenge from atop the wall.

From around his waist, the Cimmerian uncoiled a length of plaited silken rope, thin and light but immensely strong, with knots spaced along it to facilitate climbing. One end was tied to a small grapnel. Conan stepped back, cast the rope upward. The grapnel made a soft
chink
as it struck the rampart. Conan waited. The fog muffled all sound, and the riot before the main gate echoed crazily about the walls. Conan drew the rope taut, felt the grapnel scrape across the parapet, catch there.